


The Violinist

by anthonyedwardstark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Withdrawal, Explicit Drug Abuse, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Murder, Post-Reichenbach reunion, Sherlock Plays the Violin, manic depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthonyedwardstark/pseuds/anthonyedwardstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a junkie, a manic depressive, a consulting detective, a recovering addict, and a killer. He is also a friend, a protector, and a lover. And, always, a violinist.</p><p>Or, Five times Sherlock played the violin and the one time he didn't need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Violinist

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and is based off of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> Check out my [Tumblr](http://anthonyedwardstark.tumblr.com/).

-5 The Consulting Detective

 

"Idiots," Sherlock mumbles as he passes by the yellow tape.

At the mumbled insult, a man on the other side of the tape with hints of grey hair raises his head and gives a considering glance to the strung out man passing by.

"Are you talking about us?" the young officer asks Sherlock.

Sherlock, shaken into reality, sharply turns his head towards the man and raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Obviously," he says, his voice condescending in the extreme.

The officer (a sergeant, judging by the three chevrons on his shoulder badge), purses his lips at the junkie, "And what makes you say that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and says, "Well, you've arrested the wrong man."

The sergeant pauses and his eyebrows furrow.

"You think you know better than professional investigators? You're so high right now you don't know which way is up," the sergeant says.

Sherlock scoffs, "Really, sergeant. I know you've only just been promoted, but I thought one must possess at least a modicum of competency to become a sergeant. It's entirely obvious that that man didn't murder the victim. He's left-handed. He's far too tall. And even if he were ambidextrous and decided to stoop while 'murdering' the woman, he wouldn't have had the strength at the time, because if by some miracle he wasn't passed out from his frankly obscene amount of alcohol consumption, he was most certainly unable to stand upright, let alone gather the strength necessary to stab a woman or the balance required to bend his knees and remain standing. Preposterous."

The sergeant stares at the man in shock.

"I'm sorry. What?" he asks.

Sherlock groans, "Dear lord, what it must be like to be so completely oblivious. I'm certain it must be relaxing."

"How do you know all that?!" the officer demands.

Sherlock directs his eyes skywards in exasperation before glaring at the man and answering, "I can see from here that the blood spatter on the walls was the result of a northward facing man of approximately 5' 10" stabbing at a downward angle with his right hand into the center of the victim's chest, most likely nicking the aorta judging by the amount of blood on the victim's chest and the ground. The man you currently have in handcuffs is at least 6' tall. He couldn't have bent his knees while stabbing the woman because he wouldn't have had the balance necessary to do so. The man is clearly an alcoholic. He's suffering from a mild case of alcohol poisoning right now, which means he was completely inebriated at the time of the murder."

The officer stares at Sherlock in shock, and before he can speak, Sherlock continues his tirade, "'Well how do you know that he was left handed?' is what you're going to ask next. Don't be so pedestrian. That's so simple it's disgusting that I must explain it to you, but I'm feeling generous, so I'll do it anyway. He wears his watch on his right hand and when he attempts to balance himself, he supports himself with his left hand. So then, left handed. The man in your custody, while a waste of space and oxygen, is not the murderer you are looking for, Sergeant."

The officer's mouth remains slightly ajar for several long moments until he turns around and shouts to an older man across the crime scene, "Detective! I…It wasn't the drunk, sir."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows in shock. He listened to me. Perhaps he isn't a complete imbecile, he thinks.

The sergeant gives him a strange look and says, "I… Er, thanks. For the… insight, Mr…?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock promptly answers.

"Mr Holmes, then. I'm Lestrade by the way," the officer- Sergeant Lestrade- replies.

"A pleasure, Sergeant Lestrade," Sherlock says with a considering glance.

Lestrade looks around the crime scene, and then turns back to Sherlock and says, "Look, I need to get back to work, but I may need to get a statement from you later. Is there any way I can contact you?"

Sherlock nods his head and gives his address to Lestrade and then the two men part ways.

When Sherlock arrives back at his dilapidated flat he feels much calmer, much more relaxed than he has in years. His mind is sated for the moment. His cocaine high is drawing to a close, but his mind is content. Not racing or burning or consuming. Calm.

He walks across the small, dingy flat and grabs his violin case. He pulls out the violin, prepares the bow and tunes the strings. And then he plays his music. Beautiful, unmitigated, tranquil.

It is an entire twenty-two hours before he takes his next hit of cocaine.

* * *

 

-4 The Junkie

 

Sherlock leans over the table, a nail file in his right hand, a cut straw in his left. Two lines of fine, white powder sit upon the table. His tongue darts out of his mouth and coats his lips in saliva. He places the end of the straw at the start of one line and then lowers his head to the table. He places his finger on the right side of his nose to close the nostril, and then he sniffs sharply, snorting one of the lines. He tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling.

Sherlock takes several breaths with his head back, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly, he brings his head down and it lulls forward and rests on his chest, eyes closed. His breaths come loud and heavy. His pupils dilate. He picks up the straw again, this time much more clumsily, and places it at the start of the remaining line. He lowers his head, covers his left nostril, and sniffs. Then he pinches his nose shut.

His breaths become faster and sharper and his jaw slackens. His breaths turn into sharp pants. He releases his nose from the vice of his fingers and braces both arms against the sides of the table. He shoves against the table and sits up straight and then falls backwards and his back hits the ground.

Sherlock lays there in silence. Complete and utter silence. It is marvelous. It is bliss. It is nothing, and thus, it is everything. No observations rushing through his genius mind. No conclusions made or puzzles solved. There is nothing save deafening silence. Just the quiet hum of nothingness.

He closes his eyes and slows his breathing. His heart races in his chest and he enjoys every moment of the dangerous pounding. He never feels more alive than when he feels the rush of cocaine in his blood, the pounding of blood in his head, the silence of thoughtlessness in his mind. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face.

The world always seems to slow down during the high. He can see more clearly, think more clearly during it. But the clarity of the rush comes with a separation. Everything feels distanced, as if he is in another world entirely separate from the one he knows. He is removed from his world, if only for an hour or so. Everything is brighter, sharper, clearer, but it all seems so far away. His mind, for the moment, is detached and calm.

Later, when he crashes, he will regret snorting the coke; he would have much preferred injecting the drug (a seven percent solution, of course. It makes the high last longer, as he well knows), but he simply does not have the patience to cut and dissolve the coke, cuff his arm, and prepare a needle. Snorting it is much simpler. Just cut and sniff. He always has the patience for that much.

His fingers start to twitch. He becomes restless. He needs something to do. He rolls his head to the left and sees his violin case. The desire to play quickly consumes him and he forces himself off the ground to collect his violin.

He places the case on the table and unclasps the latches holding the case shut. He lifts the lid and stares at the beautiful instrument. He runs his fingers across the soft, blue lining of the interior and slightly smiles at the pleasurable feeling. He drags his thumb across the strings and feels the rough ridges in the wires. It is a remarkably sensual experience that is only enhanced by the high.

The fine instrument lays in the case while Sherlock picks up the bow and the well-worn rosin block. He tries to rosin his bow, but the block will not yield. He grabs the nail file from the table, still sprinkled with cocaine, and clumsily files the face of the rosin block. Once a fine layer of the block has been chiseled, he messily covers the strands with rosin powder.

He finally lifts the instrument from its rest. He grabs the violin by its neck and places his chin on the end. He raises the bow in his right hand and after a deep breath and a shuttering blink of both eyes, he drags the bow across the strings. A satisfied smile appears on his dazed face.

During the high, his music is dissonant, unpleasant and discordant. But it is powerful and it is real.

* * *

 

-3 The Recovering Addict

 

His head aches. His fingers tremble. His hands are cold. His vision blurs. The tremors in his fingers make it difficult to grip the bow, but he knows he needs to do it. He misses the cocaine more than he has ever missed anything. More than he misses his parents, more than he misses his brother.

The cocaine silences his mind. But his addiction makes him ordinary. And Sherlock refuses to be ordinary. Ordinary is boring.

He knows that the drugs are not silencing his mind; they are slowing it, damaging it, ruining it. He knows it. He needs to stops because he will not be "just" anything. He will not be "just another junkie", "just another man", "just another tramp".

He needs to stop. What he needs to stop, he isn't quite sure.

He needs to stop using, yes. But he also needs to stop his mind. He needs to stop being ordinary. But he needs to stop the withdrawal. And, dear God, he needs to stop being ridiculous and take another hit. He needs to stop the flurry of observations, of stories, of conclusions, of deductions that rush through his mind and leave him half mad. And his violin is the only thing besides the drugs that can dull the fury of his thoughts, that can sooth his raging mind, even if only slightly.

Violin, he thinks, From the Latin 'vitula', meaning stringed instrument. He loves the violin. The violin is one of the few things that Sherlock will never bore of or tire of. It is always wonderful, and beautiful, and fascinating. He loves to drag the bow across the strings. The only thing he loves more than the drag of a bow across strings is the drag of crack from a pipe. He whimpers with desperate desire.

He needs the drugs.

He needs his mind.

With a distressed huff, he stands and stumbles towards his violin case. He kneels next to it and raises the lid. He releases a relieved breath. He grabs the bow and runs his second finger along the hairs. And then, he pinches his thumb and finger together and makes a face of displeasure.

The texture is wrong.

So his trembling fingers grab the block of rosin and unsteadily raise it to the frog of the bow. Shaking, he rakes the block up and down across the hairs, preparing the bow for its abuse. He pulls the violin from the case and rests the instrument in his lap.

He is sweating profusely and his stomach is turning. His quivering fingers meet the aged wood of his Strad and then trace along the grain and then dip into the f-holes. He wraps his hand around the neck and places the violin on his shoulder. He lifts the bow and rests it on the strings, making no noise. After a pause, he pulls the bow across the strings and a beautiful, dissonant noise reverberates through the shabby room. A musical dissonance to match his cognitive dissonance.

He gives a broken smile and a relieved sob at the noise. The musical strain is aggressive and rough and magnificent and it is his.

* * *

 

-2 The Manic Depressive

 

Sherlock Holmes trembles in the darkness. The doors are shut. The curtains are drawn. The lights are off. His eyes are closed.

Nothingness is what he aims for. But it is a solace he never achieves. Because there is almost nothing, but not quite. There is still something.

There is always something.

And that something is his mind. And his mind is inescapable and perfect and brilliant and razor sharp.

And his razor sharp mind tears and shreds and cuts itself to pieces. His thoughts are mad and uncontrollable and his head pounds and throbs and his heart breaks and bleeds and his mind races and canters and his body shudders and whimpers and his muscles twitch and spasm and his neurons pulse and fire and the world spins and turns and the pain is.

It is in his thoughts and in his head and in his heart and in his mind and in his body and in his muscles and in his neurons and in the world. And it will not leave.

There is nothing for it. It is an eternity in an instant from excruciation. There is no hope. There is no promise of relief. There is misery and silence and pain. And darkness.

And there is also his thoughts and his head and his heart and his mind and his body and his muscles and his neurons and the world.

But mostly, there is his mind and his pain and the darkness. Because the world is not enough. And it will never be enough.

His mind needs stimulation like a shark needs moving water. Needs it to live and survive. But the world is nothing. The world is boredom and dullness and monotony and ennui. But there is still nothing, save darkness and pain and his mind.

Inescapable. Uncontrollable. Eternal.

His mind races and races and races and races and races. On and on and on and on. To nowhere. To nothing. Until it has destroyed itself, is in tatters. And then there is pain and darkness and his mind.

And somewhere, in the eternity of the blackness, there is the music.

Impossible, pure, and absolute.

The music is his. It is in his thoughts and his head and his heart and his mind and his body and his muscles and his neurons and his world. It chases the nothing away. It takes him from the darkness and the pain and his mind.

* * *

 

-1 The Killer

 

He has never before killed someone that wasn't actively trying to kill him. And somehow, it is different from killing someone in defense. It changes from 'what happened to me' to 'what I did'. All of the onus is his and his alone. No one to blame. No one except himself. Not even John-

John is not to blame. There is no blame for John. Because the blame is for Sherlock and Moriarty and Moran and Mycroft and all of the people that aren't John. But everything is for John. Always for John. And he would do it again. Do it a thousand times over. For John.

He sits in the shower, letting the water wash over his back. His hands are red, scrubbed raw. But they are still not clean, will never be clean. And there is blood on them. Permanent blood stains that burn and prickle and pulse. Stains that will not go away.

He curls up under the water. He shuts his eyes and he tries to think himself into nothingness. To make his mind disappear. Because his perfect mind- His perfect, terrible mind- remembers everything. The resistance of the man's flesh when he pushed the knife through his skin. The gasp of pain and surprise that passed through the man's lips. The slow expansion of the blood stain on the man's crisp white shirt. The confusion etched on his face. The sadness- the absolute despair- in his eyes as he took his final breaths.

And Sherlock knows. He knew everything about the man with just a glance. He was thirty-three years old. A father to two children, a son aged two and a five- year old daughter named Emina. He had a wife of eight years named Mena. He was an engineer, recently promoted. His mother was a widow with a bad hip and cataracts. He never drank and he never smoked. He cared for his family. Money for his children was the reason he was drawn into Moriarty's web.

Sherlock knows. He knows he will never forget.

He throws his head back against the cold tiles of the shower and slams his hands to the floor. He takes a deep breath then stands up, still leaning against the wall. He steps out of the bath and into the shabby motel room, walks to his violin case and crouches before grabbing the cheap instrument and bow.

With no preface or preparation, he begins to slide the bow against the strings in a horrible way, with trembling hands and an unsteady grip.

He plays and he plays and he plays. His heart and his mind and his hands. They bleed and bleed and bleed. And the blood drips down the neck of the violin and across the strings and up the bow and out of his heart and down his arms and pools on the ground until the room floods and he drowns. Until there is nothing left but his blood and his music and his guilt.

* * *

 

0 The Violinist

 

"No," John pleads.

Sherlock tightens his eyebrows in confusion.

"No. This isn't real. This isn't happening. Oh, God. Oh, dear God!" John repeats.

"John-," Sherlock begins to speak.

"No. Please. Stop. Just please, don't," John begs with his eyes clenched shut.

Sherlock's lips part and his head tilts to the left. Disbelief, he decides.

He says nothing. John walks to his chair and sits with his head in his hands. Sherlock remains standing, his eyes scanning the room that hasn't changed at all since he left it those three long years ago. Except-

"Where is my violin?" he demands.

John looks up, startled.

"What?" he asks in bewilderment.

"My violin! Where is it?!" he exclaims.

He blinks in disbelief for a moment before he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out so he closes his mouth again.

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes before he begins scouring the flat in an attempt to locate his violin.

John watches Sherlock frantically search the flat for nearly a minute before he bursts into slightly hysterical laughter.

Sherlock turns and stares at John.

John's laughter devolves into hyperventilation. He lowers his head to his hands once more to regain control of himself.

"It's really you," he states after several long minutes.

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs in agreement.

"You're not dead," John says.

"I'm not dead," Sherlock agrees with a nod.

"How are you not dead?" John asks.

"I… it's a long story," Sherlock says.

John just stares in response.

"I faked my death so that I could dismantle Moriarty's network," Sherlock explains.

"And have you done it?" John asks.

Sherlock nods once.

"So are you back then?" John asks.

Sherlock nods again.

"For good?" John asks.

Sherlock nods for the third time.

"Can I kiss you?" John asks.

Sherlock pauses and narrows his eyes. He stares at John.

And then he nods.

John stands up and slowly approaches the violinist. He stops when the two men stand toe to toe. And then he puts his hand on Sherlock's cheek and tilts the man's head down then raises his own up and their lips meet.

John's lips are dry and they taste slightly of tea. They burn against his lips like a cigarette. He traces the outline of John's lips with his own and John's eyelashes flutter lightly against his skin. He pulls back and licks his lips. John does the same. And then John smiles. And his smile is blinding and brilliant and wonderful.

fin


End file.
